Nineteen Oh Four
by Angela Kip
Summary: Booker DeWitt had expected a lot of things, but carting an eight-year-old to New York was not one of them. AU retelling of Bioshock Infinite.
1. Monument Island

**A/N: As this is an AU, the timeline is a bit broken. The two major assumptions here are that the year is still 1912 and that the siphon is already in place. Everything else will be explained throughout the course of the story.**

Monument Island

'PAST THIS POINT, TWELVE HOUR QUARANTINE.'

Booker raised a hand to brush sweaty hair from sticking to his face. He had been at this for what seemed like ages, fighting this and that, dealing with those strange redheaded twins, and he hadn't even gotten to the girl yet. What stumped him was how they knew he was coming, about the carving on his hand. A glance in the direction of the nearest clock made him grimace. It was almost five in the morning, he had started far too late. Or maybe too early. At any other time of day he would have been carting around either an awake and (he hoped) fully compliant girl, or one who was too sleepy to question him. He'd been hoping for the latter, and if he was quick he might still be able to get the tail end of her sleep cycle.

With a push through the door in front of him, he was greeted with a short hallway and a large chart in front of him. He rubbed his chin. "What is this…?"

It seemed very much like a type of growth chart. A child's body was carefully outlined to scale at each year, from age two up to eight. Must have been the first of many growth charts, he thought to himself. Each outline featured careful notes, along with the girl's height, weight, and precise measurements. The last one was circled: _Height 1.12 m (3 ft 8 in), weight 23.6 kg (52 lbs)_. His mouth turned up a little in a smirk. She had been a tiny thing…not that he particularly liked children. They were too much, with their shrieking and running around and tantrums and bathroom accidents. It was why he'd rarely seen his sister since she'd given birth three and a half years ago.

'PAST THIS POINT, SEVENTY-TWO HOUR QUARANTINE.'

Through the next arch, a series of flickering electrical storms greeted him, along with a large sign reading SIPHON PASSIVE. Underneath it lay three levers, each labeled with Transpose Numbers 1, 2, and 3. That made sense enough, although he couldn't figure out the source of all the electricity floating around. He reached a hand out to pull the first lever.

"Wonder what these do…"

The siphon lit up, displaying a child's teddy bear. Above it someone had written, _Companion, age 4_. His brow furrowed. Wasn't having a teddy bear a completely normal thing for a kid that age?

It didn't matter. He needed to stop wasting so much time. The other levers revealed empty containers, so off he went again, trudging past the small rooms he could see on either side of himself in favor of a direct route. He needed to get there before the girl woke up. The more groggy she was, the less likely she would be to argue.

The next room contained little other than a chart written on a chalkboard, so smeared it had made a good portion of the chart unreadable. Along the side someone had written _power readings,_ and along the bottom, _specimen age._ It seemed a fairly linear chart apart from a spike at age four or five (along with a note saying _siphon installed_), but it was hard to tell given the messiness of it. By age six he could hardly read it, and he gave up at seven. If he didn't even know what it was, it wouldn't be able to help him much, anyway. If the thing was even meant to be helpful in the first place.

'PAST THIS POINT, ONE HUNDRED SIXTY-EIGHT HOUR QUARANTINE.'

That made him stop. An entire week of quarantine for being near the girl? But he continued on shortly, still doing his best to hurry. He could see a card on the wall listing off different locations, with the top reading _Specimen Locator_. Pressing the button made the light that said _Library_ light up.

"Library. That's where we need to go," he muttered to himself. So she was already awake. No matter, he'd just figure out a way to get her to come along. Bribe her with something, probably.

Through a door, around a hallway, and he could see what looked to be a set of curtains with a lever underneath it. He gave it an experimental tug and the curtains flew open, revealing a two-way mirror. He couldn't see much, what with the complete darkness in front of him. His lips curled into a smile again. Maybe she was sleeping after all…

In any event, she wasn't moving around. Now to find the way in to her. It took a handful of doors and quite a few stairs to do it, so many that he finally doubted there was ever going to be an end to this tower, whether there was actually a way in to the girl, perhaps she was locked up for -

"Holy shit!"

He had come across a ramp outside, and an incredibly windy one at that. It threatened to send him toppling over the edge, and he had to resist the urge to cling to the railing. Deep breath. "All right. I can do this."

Booker made his way over slowly, keeping one hand out for the railing should it be needed. Who the hell had designed this tower? They had obviously wanted to discourage people from getting to the girl. He opened the door, took two steps, and felt the floor give way under his feet.

"Oh God!" The man grabbed for the nearest ledge and pulled himself up, hearing the scream an instant before he made eye contact with a young girl.

"Monster!"

"Uh…hello," he managed, looking at her. Or trying to. He didn't have long before a book hit him in the face, the shock causing him to let go. "Hey - ow - knock it off!"

"Go away!" She tossed another, running down the stairs as she did so.

"Ugh, will you stop it - WILL YOU STOP IT?" She was right up next to him now, holding another book and ready to strike. She was small, only just coming up to his waist, and her hair was disheveled. He took a deep breath. Whoever this was, she could lead him to the girl. "I'm not here to hurt you."

"Who are you?" she demanded in her high voice.

"My name is DeWitt. I'm a friend. I'm looking for Elizabeth."

Her eyebrows jumped. "How do you know my name?"

There was no way. There was no way this little pint-sized… "_You're_ Elizabeth?"

She gave one firm nod, extending one hand; he could see the pinky was covered by a thimble. "Are you real?"

"I'm real enough." He was about to ask her about that strange finger when a loud noise interrupted them. It sounded vaguely like a harp playing, but much louder and mechanical, definitely meant to get his attention.

"He's coming," the girl said, looking up. "You should go. He's gonna hurt you so much."

"Why?"

"I just told you. He'll hurt you so much." There was a disturbing calmness to her voice, and she looked up to the ceiling before shouting, "JUST A MINUTE! I'M GETTING DRESSED!"

He waved her off. "I can get you out of here."

Her brow furrowed. "Why would I want to get out?"

That made him stop. "You like it here?"

"Uh-huh." She spread her arms. "I have lots of books. Have you ever read about Paris? I'm going to go there someday. Somebody is going to come and take me." She paused, an eyebrow arching. "Did you come to do that?"

Oh, this was too easy. "Sure did. You want to come with me?"

Elizabeth stopped, her shoulders sagging. "I don't think I can. There's no way out. I've looked."

Another loud noise, almost identical to the first, interrupted them. The girl came to life again, shouting in the general direction of the ceiling. "STOP IT, YOU'RE TOO IMPATIENT! THAT'S ENOUGH!"

Booker held out the key. "What about this?"

She glanced at it. "What is it?"

"This is the way out, isn't it?"

"What are you - ? Give it to me." She took it from his hand and grinned, twirling it around in her fingers. "Can I take a book with me? Please, mister?"

He glanced up towards where the noise had come from. "Sure," he said reluctantly. "Just be quick."

She was already holding an armful of books, packing them securely into a knapsack. He gave her a stern look. "I meant a few."

Her lower lip jutted out. "These are my favorites, though." Ignoring his heavy sigh, she stuffed them into the knapsack and closed it. Her little legs stumbled a bit when she put it on, but she recovered quickly, running to the door and fitting the key in the lock. When it unlocked, she fought to push the heavy slab of ornate metal open.

"It's a way out! Come on, mister! This way!" She darted out, and he pushed the door open to squeeze through himself. No sooner had he done so than a deafening crash exploded above them, and tiny chunks of the ceiling splintered down. Elizabeth turned over her shoulder. "It's his job to keep me safe in here!"

"We'll see about that!" Damn, she was fast for a little kid. He bolted after her, doing his best to avoid the chaos that was the tower coming down around them. One knocked him to the floor and he released a gasp. "Wait!"

"Who are you?" she demanded. "Did you really come to take me to Paris?"

He could answer her questions later. For now he looked around the corner. They were getting close to the lift. "Call the elevator!"

"What?"

"Press the button!" He gestured wildly, but she wasn't looking. Her eyes were firmly fixed on the two-way mirror he had seen earlier.

"What's all this? Somebody was watching me? All this time… Why? Why did I get put in here? What am I?"

Oh, for crying out loud, not now. "You're the girl who's getting out of this tower. To Paris!"

She gave a nod and went to push the button, but a giant claw ripped through the shaft before she could. It gave Booker his first glimpse of what looked very much like an enormous bird like creature made of metal, with two wide eyes and an ear-splitting screech.

"We have to run!" Elizabeth hollered. "He's tearing the building apart!"

"No shit!" He was already going after her up a flight of stairs, and another, and another. "Be careful!"

"Hurry! There's a door up here!"

When he emerged he could see her struggling to try to open the door, her weight no match for that of it. "Out of the way. Let me try." Booker pulled it open easily, and she squirmed through.

"Which way?"

Hell if he knew, but there was one safe bet in this situation. "Up!" he shouted, seconds before the floor fell away from them. She screamed and his hand flew out on instinct to catch hers, his other pulling out his skyhook. It clicked softly onto the nearest skyline, the noise inaudible over the sound of the city coming down around them. That goddamn bird. _It_ was doing all this - nothing was ever easy -

"Don't let go! Don't let go!" Elizabeth shrieked.

"I'm not!" Or he wasn't. Not until the skyline fell away from them. Then he felt her fingers slip out of his hand as he dropped, falling and falling until there was a splash and he hit what felt very much like the ocean.

There was the bird's screeching again, he could see it right next to him. It was reaching out, he was going to die -

It all went black.

* * *

Abruptly Booker was in another place. It was the same room he had woken in so many times before, gray and lifeless, except that this time Elizabeth stood with her back pressed up against a chest. Her fingers gripped it tightly, and he could see that she was breathing hard.

"Mr. DeWitt!" shouted several tones of voices, blended into one, coming from the front door of the office. They sounded very impatient. "Mr. DeWitt!"

Elizabeth didn't tear her gaze from the floor. "Bring us the girl," she whispered, "and wipe away the debt."

"Are you in there, Mr. DeWitt?"

"Huh?" Booker looked towards the door. "What do you want with her?"

"We had a deal, Mr. DeWitt!" the voice shouted instead of answering.

"Tell me what you want with her!"

"Open this door, right now!"

"Are you going to hurt her?" He tried one last time. "Tell me what you want!"

After several long moments of silence, he stepped forward and pushed the door open slowly.

"Anna?" he heard himself say. "Annaaaa?"


	2. Battleship Bay

Battleship Bay

"Anna?" Booker called hoarsely, vision slowly coming back in a bright flash of light. "Anna?"

"No, it's me, Elizabeth. Don't you remember?" He could see her now, standing above her, grasping his hand. He pulled it away.

"Where am I?"

She spread her arms. "I think it's a beach. Here, let me - "

"I'm fine." He waved her off, but she insisted.

"You almost drowned, you need to - "

"I _said_ I'm fine. Just…just give me a minute."

She stopped, then looked up. "Do you hear that? It's music."

"Go on," he allowed. "I just… just need to…"

A grin spread across her face. "Okay. I won't be long, Mr. DeWitt."

When Booker woke fully, it was on a beach surrounded by umbrellas and young people. He glanced around and, upon seeing no sign of the little girl who had joined him just minutes before, decided that the first course of action would be to look for her.

Somebody was sure to remember a child walking around on her own, weren't they? He approached two men sitting on the sand and called, "You seen a girl around here? Uh - blue skirt, dark hair?"

"Look at this one," one of them said with a chuckle.

"Why don't you just sleep it off, chum?" asked the other.

Without bothering to answer, Booker turned to the next nearest person. "Hey, I'm looking for a young girl."

The man turned over his shoulder with a grin. "Who isn't, brother?"

Nobody here was any help at all. He grumbled to himself for a moment as he continued on before spotting a poster. _President Comstock's personal airship at the First Lady's Aerodrome!_ it read in large gold letters.

"An airship," he pondered out loud. "That could be our ticket out of here."

It only took a bit more walking before the music drew him in. It was a jolly, lively tune coming from the boardwalk, and when he glanced over he found Elizabeth easily. She was giggling, in the middle of what appeared to be a partner dance with a circle of other children. After a moment the boy she was dancing with let go of her hands and she flitted to the center of the area. Her feet turned her repeatedly and steadily while the others formed a semicircle around her, clapping in rhythm. Booker made a face as he approached. Oh, this was going to be a pain to interrupt if somebody started crying. Still…

"Hey, kid!" he shouted at her. "Kid… Elizabeth!"

She turned around, a wide smile on her face. "This is the best! Come dance with me, Mr. DeWitt!" she invited, extending both arms. He brushed her off.

"I don't dance. C'mon, let's go."

"Why?" She twirled in a neat circle. "I love this!"

A passing airship caught his eye, and he asked, "Did you forget about Paris?"

"Oh, right." Her brow furrowed. "I don't understand, how would we get there?"

"Well, it's where that airship's going," he said, pointing to it, "but if you want to stay and dance, we can - "

"No, let's go!" She grabbed his hand and started dragging him off the boardwalk, catching him off-guard and causing a stumble. "Come on, let's go! Let's go _right now_!" After a moment she let go, perhaps realizing that she was being too rough, and took off at a run. He followed closely behind.

"I'm out!" she sang. "It's hard to believe but it's true, isn't it? And kind of lonely. I miss my friend Songbird." She frowned momentarily.

"Paris'll be worth it," he said.

"Uh-huh!" She nodded, inhaling deeply. "Oh, can you smell that? I've never smelled anything like that before. Have you?"

_Beaches I know don't smell much like that_ was his thought, but he kept it to himself. She was already up a short flight of stairs and waiting impatiently in front of a turnstile, following at his heels when he spun himself inside.

"Mr. DeWitt…" She pointed to a poster of Zachary Comstock. "Comstock. I've read about him. They say he can see the future, but my books say nobody can do that."

Booker shrugged. "Give a man a little power, he falls in all kinds of love with himself."

"I don't like his look," Elizabeth said too loudly, making the shop owner look over.

"Do you dislike the look of the Prophet?" he asked. "Or his gaze?"

"Sorry," Booker muttered. Elizabeth was already pulling him along by the arm.

"Can we leave now?"

"Sure, kid."

She followed him up another two flights of stairs to an upper portion of the boardwalk, filled with vendors and customers. When he stopped to eye a rifle, she called sharply, "Mr. DeWitt - here!"

"Bird?" said a male voice.

"Or the cage?" asked a woman's.

"Or perhaps the bird?"

"Nothing beats the cage."

By now he had caught up to them, seeing the same strange redheaded twins that had greeted him a few times earlier. How had they managed…? "These two again?" Booker muttered. "How do - never mind."

"Look at these, they're so pretty!" Elizabeth squealed, holding up two tiny boxes containing brooches. On one was inscribed a bird, the other a cage. "Which one do you like more? This one…or this?" She held up each in turn. "I'm not good at picking one. You should pick for me."

He grunted, waving a hand at the cage. "The one on the left." Not that it mattered. It was only a silly brooch, she could wear both at once for all he cared.

"Are you _sure_?"

"I'm sure."

She fastened it carefully, a grin usurping her face. "I love it!"

"Surprising," mumbled one of the redheads. "I expected the bird."

"If you're going to be a sore loser, then I shan't do this again," said the other. Booker was hardly keeping track anymore as they began to walk away.

"Now that's just sophistry," was the last he heard before they were gone.

Elizabeth had already moved on. "My God…look…"

His gaze followed her outstretched hand and then further, to the tower in the distance. "Are you all right?"

"It was my home…" she said faintly. "And now it's all..."

He put his foot down. "We should get out of here."

"Let's go," she agreed.

Along the boardwalk and up another short flight of stairs, to an arcade full of cops shouting orders at a crowd. Tugging the little girl along, Booker opted to bypass them and head off to a hallway on his right. There was a drunkard half-sitting, half-lying on the floor, and he kept his eyes straight ahead, but Elizabeth didn't.

"Hi, mister," she said.

"Look at this one," the man hiccuped. "Hey, hey copper! Look at this one! He's suspicious, if you ask me!"

Booker's eyes widened, his pulse racing only to slow a moment later when the cop called back, "All right, all right. Quiet down there, Pete. Just go home and dry yourself out."

Thank God. They headed a little further down the hallway before being stopped by a door that Booker tried. "Ah, damn thing's locked."

To his surprise, Elizabeth ran up and, after a quick glance around, pulled a hairpin out of her tresses. He quirked an eyebrow at her. "What are you doing?"

"What's it look like?" She snapped the lock off with a flourish only a moment later. "Done!"

He lowered his voice. "Where did you learn how to pick locks?"

"I had lots of books, and I read them all the time. I had lots of time to read." She smiled proudly.

"I bet."

They made their way through the interior of the building, Elizabeth being easily persuaded not to speak with an obviously intoxicated worker after their earlier incident, though she stared intently at the ground most of the time.

"Look!" she cried suddenly, and tossed him a coin. "I found a silver eagle. Do you want it, Mr. DeWitt? You could use it to buy something."

"Thanks, kid." He caught it and stuffed it away.

"What's that mean?" she asked at the next door. "'Mind your manners amongst your betters'?"

"It's not meant for you." He pushed open the door to the arcade and her face lit up as though she was seeing Christmas in July. He only looked away for a second, and when he looked back she was standing near him with a carton of cotton candy as big as her head. "Where did you get that?"

"Over there." She took a bite, pointing to a man with a signboard that read, _Enjoy delicious cotton candy free today._

Booker heaved a sigh. The last thing he needed was a child hopped up on sugar. "Look, don't eat too much of that, okay?"

"Okay!" Something caught her eye across the room. "Mr. DeWitt! Flawless Flintlock!" She raced to a game, abandoning the sugary treat in favor of the controls. "It's the newest one in the series."

"Hey, how do you - ?"

"I read it was delayed _three times_," she said importantly, cutting him off.

"Kid, we don't have time to play games. We're going to miss the airship." He pulled her away with some difficulty and led her up the next flight of stairs. Shortly they approached a turnstile with an old woman standing in front of it. She looked up at the sound of their footsteps and smiled.

"Annabelle?"

"What?" Elizabeth furrowed her brow.

"Annabelle, it's me, Auntie Esther!" the woman called happily. Booker found his hand coming to rest on the child's back of its own accord.

"Oh no, I'm not Annabelle," she said in her high voice.

Esther's voice wavered a little. "Are you sure?"

"My name is Elizabeth." She crossed her arms over her chest and tilted her head to the side. "Do I know you?"

Instead of answering, Esther just smiled. "Elizabeth. Isn't that a lovely name?" she said rhetorically before disappearing.

"That was odd." Elizabeth looked up at him, but he only shrugged.

"Last customer, park's closing," called a voice from inside. "Park's closing, everyone."

"C'mon," he urged, and she hurried to the ticket counter, passing the woman they had spoken to earlier and moving to stand neatly behind him when he rang the bell for service, seeing the man behind the counter on the phone. "Two tickets for passage to the First Lady airship."

"Yeah, just a minute, friend." The man turned back to the phone. "Yeah, I have it. How do you want to proceed?"

Booker drummed his fingers on the counter. "In a bit of a rush, pal."

"Hey mister," he heard Elizabeth shout to someone behind him, "you're going to get mustard all over your nice suit!"

"Mm-hmm," the man said into the phone. "I've got it. I'll ring you back once the matter's in hand."

"I don't like this," Booker muttered.

"Send in the bird, we're ready to execute."

_Bird…?_ There was only one thing that could mean. He drew his gun and ordered, "Stay where you are!"

The ticket man threw his hands in the air. "Move in!" he shouted.

"What are you doing?" Elizabeth screeched. Booker turned just in time to see her headbutt what must have been one of the ticket man's comrades before kicking him squarely in the crotch and making a run for it.

"Get the girl!" someone yelled.

"Get off of me!" Elizabeth delivered a blood curdling scream. "Get away from me! Let me out! I want out! I want out of here now!"

He pulled his gun forward and fired, the sound of bullets flying making the little girl cover her ears. He could see her now in his peripheral vision before she bolted. "Elizabeth!" he called above the noise.

She slipped between the bars of a gate and took off. "Stay away from me!"

Great, now what? He fired at the blinking dots in his vision, letting them fade one by one as they collapsed. With hardly a second thought he added a handful of crows to distract them, putting each fighter down individually. Once they were gone, he lowered his rifle, breathing hard. They had broken the gate coming in and now he charged through the space in active pursuit of the girl.

"Elizabeth!" he shouted again. "Where is she? Just stay where you are!" he added as he emerged to a gondola area. A passing glimpse of her blue skirt swished by in his vision, and then he heard her shrill tone.

"Get away from me!"

"Hey! Come back here!"

He managed to chase her onto the gondola, where she was pulling at the lever, thoroughly out of breath. He gave it a yank, setting the car on course easily.

"You killed those people," she whispered. "I can't believe you did that…they're all dead… You _killed_ those people."

"Elizabeth, I - "

She came up and gave him a push, not hard enough to hurt but enough to make him lose his footing. "You're a murderer, Mr. DeWitt!"

"What did you think was going to happen?" he asked, giving her a moment to cool down. "Hm?"

"What?" Her figure tensed.

"Do you understand the expense people went through to keep you locked up in that tower? You think people like that are just gonna let you walk away? You are an investment. And you will not be safe until you are far away from here."

"I was safe in the tower," she insisted. "Songbird kept me safe."

He decided against trying to persuade her otherwise. "But he didn't want you to go to Paris, hm?"

"No." She looked down. "What do - what do they want from me?"

"I don't know." He waited until she met his eyes again. "One thing I've learned, if you don't draw first, you don't get to draw at all."

She nodded, but there was no comprehension in her expression. "You're bleeding. C'mere," she urged, retrieving a handkerchief from her knapsack and patting his face with it. "What happened back there, it's - it's going to happen again, isn't it?"

The gondola drew to a stop, and he admitted, "I don't know."

"There." She put the handkerchief back. "Do I have to just...get used to it?"

"Probably so."

"You know, I read something about medicine before," she said conversationally. "I can do my best to make sure you always have first aid, Mr. DeWitt. Always! People with guns need medicine a lot, don't they?"

"They sure do, kid." And for a moment, he thought that perhaps taking her to New York wouldn't be so difficult after all.


	3. Soldier's Field

Soldier's Field

She was chatty, even for a kid. The little girl didn't hesitate to comment on anything and everything she found interesting, and especially not about Paris. She was in the middle of babbling about croissants when they tried to pass under a gate and it slammed shut, nearly catching Booker's foot in the process. He glanced to the side. The electricity that had been keeping it open had failed.

"The gate's shut," she said unhappily. Booker had been tuning her out for so long, it took him a minute to realize what she was saying. "_Now_ how are we going to get to the airship?"

He thought a moment. "Let me see if I can get that gate open by hand."

"You could try forcing it open," she said eagerly. "Just pull really hard!"

He was prepared to tell her it wouldn't work, but he held his tongue and pulled. To his surprise, the gate gave way a little, and he was able to pull up hard enough for Elizabeth to wriggle underneath it. Then himself, easily enough, and when he let go the gate crashed back down. Elizabeth hardly noticed. She was reading a poster printed just opposite of where they were standing.

"'Shock Jockey. Who needs the power company?'"

Booker snorted. "Some fool's alternative to electricity."

"It must not work very well, like with the gate," she agreed, following him outside. A large sign greeted them: _Welcome to Soldier's Field_. As the man headed towards it, a rumbling interrupted him, and he pointed upwards when he saw the source.

"There it is. The First Lady. Looks like it's heading for the dock."

"And that will take us to Paris?"

He nodded. "Just stay close."

She turned in a little circle, clapping her hands with glee. "Yes, Mr. DeWitt."

"Call me Booker."

Her face lit up. "Can I call you Book?"

This kid… "No."

"I'm going to call you Book anyways," she declared. "Book. Book Book Book Book."

He scowled. "Knock it off or I'm putting you back in that tower."

"You're so mean, Mr. DeWitt." She pouted. "Can I call you Paper? Books are made of paper."

"_No_. Booker or nothing, kid."

"All right. Booker." She pranced along at his heels. "Do you know why you had to come and get me?"

"I imagine they were interested in meeting you." He winced as the words left his mouth, praying she wouldn't ask who they were. "No doubt for lockpicking lessons," he added, to keep her mind off it.

"Oh. Why you?"

He shrugged. "I never even heard of this place before I got here."

"Huh." Her eyebrows arched. "I thought everybody knew about Columbia."

"Guess I got a bit behind with current events. Hold on a second." He stopped to dig through the trash, picking out a bit of cash. Oh, there was a cake -

"Booker, what are you doing?" She strained to see.

"I'm, uh - "

"Are you eating out of the trash?" Her nose wrinkled, and she stooped to pick up a silver eagle, tossing it at him. "Here. I have some more money. You can use it to buy better food."

"Uh, thanks, kid." He stuffed it away, face heating. As they headed down a set of stairs, they could hear a broadcast playing.

"Our broadcast will continue after a moment of silent prayer for the victims of today's brutality…"

Elizabeth looked up. "What are you, Mr. DeWitt? Some sort of a…?" She didn't finish.

"I'm a, uh, independent contractor," he answered. "Used to work for the Pinkertons and such. Not something you'd want gracing a resume."

"The Pinkertons?" She thought for a moment. "Oh! They were the ones they'd call in to settle things when workers went on strike. Right?"

"Heh. 'Settle.'" If that worked for a kid, so be it. "Well, that's a word for it."

They headed past a couple of people dressed in costumes with overly large heads (cueing a pointed finger and a chortle from the little girl) and up to a lever. Behind it stood a pod brimming with electricity. Elizabeth nodded towards it. "You have to call the gondola, Booker. I think these are the controls."

He examined it, giving a tug and watching the sparks in the pod in front of him fizzle out. Elizabeth sighed.

"I'm pretty sure you need Shock Jockey for it to work," she suggested.

"Course I do. Where in the hell are we going to find that?"

She tapped the board standing right next to it that he'd somehow managed to miss. "'Come see the future of power at the Hall of Heroes,'" she read aloud.

"Ah. Well, that's convenient."

No sooner had they started heading back than they heard a PA broadcasting loudly. "Gentlemen," the speaker declared, "the False Shepherd is loose in the streets of our fair city! Will you suffer the shame of allowing your wives and daughters to fall prey to his machinations? Or will you act? Act for your women folk! Act for your Prophet! Act!"

_Seriously, what the hell?_ They had arrived back at the welcome sign, and he could hear footsteps approaching. He nudged the little girl. "Stand back."

If she said anything in response, it was drowned out by the sound of gunshots. They were coming from the top of the stairs. This was too easy. He could just stand back and pick them off one by one, peppering each one with bullets until they were down. As he walked up to search their pockets, a noise startled him and he jumped back up, shooting down the final one.

God, some people would do anything to protect what they thought was worth it. He wasn't even all that dangerous if nobody attacked him first. At least, he liked to think so. He pulled a few shiny silver eagles from the pockets of the corpses before heading into the nearest elevator with Elizabeth. The little girl was breathing hard, still appearing a bit startled. Probably about the fight, he decided. They'd have to work on -

"Ooof," he groaned as the elevator lights flickered and the whole thing came to a shuddering halt. "What the hell?"

"Did it break?" Elizabeth's eyebrows knitted together.

He was already opening the fuse box. "Ahh, nothing I can't fix." He pried it apart, looking closely at the parts, until a shout from the child broke his concentration.

"Agh! It's a bee, I - I hate these things!" she cried as she squirmed in her spot.

He sighed. "Ah, jeez, just kill it."

"No, it'll sting me!" she whined.

"Elizabeth!" He turned to look at her, but she was facing the poster of Songbird on the wall, doing something in front of herself with her hands.

"I have a better idea."

He quirked an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

"I'm opening a tear!" she called, and she pulled her hands apart and a surge of white light burst forth and then so did a world. That was the best way Booker could think to describe it. The wall was still there, but wallpapered now beyond a certain point, and a large window sat on it, showing the sky and what he assumed to be the top of a hedge.

"Whoa, shit! What is that?"

"It's a tear," Elizabeth said modestly, rubbing at her temples and wincing a little. "I used to open them all the time in my tower."

"What is a tear?" he demanded.

She was clearly struggling for the right words. "It's like a… a window. A window to another world. Most of the time they're really boring. Like you get a different colored towel, or tea instead of coffee. But sometimes?" She reached out and plucked a rose out of the other world, then broke off the thorns and placed it neatly behind her ear. "Sometimes I see something amazing. And I pull it through."

"Good God." He gave a heavy sigh. "I don't suppose you've got an airship in there?"

"I don't think so. But there is…" She glanced out the window, watching something large and mechanical fly by. "Th- there is something…" It flew by again, more defined this time, and she gasped. "Oh no!"

"Close it," Booker ordered, holding up his gun. He knew it would be little use if the thing crashed into them, and it looked like it wanted to.

"I'm trying!" She was clearly struggling with it, spreading her arms and trying to bring them together.

"CLOSE IT!" he barked, and she slammed it shut, then slumped back against the wall, breathing hard.

"Sorry, Booker."

The doors opened and he stepped out. "I don't really understand what I just saw back there," he admitted. "But it sure as hell looks like a shortcut to getting us killed."

"But I could help…" she tried weakly.

"I can handle whatever comes along." He set a hand on her shoulder, patting roughly. "Trust me."

"Fine." She was now admiring a display of a Motorized Patriot, watching as it moved. He pulled her along and she complied, still looking back as they walked away. Then she gave a shout and held something up. "A Vigor, Mr. DeWitt! Look!"

"Thanks, kid." He took it from her, reading the label. Good thing she was along, he caught himself thinking.

"It's called Bucking Bronco," she said. "And you can throw people into the air with it!"

"Yeah, I see that." He uncapped it and took a gulp, feeling the now-somewhat-familiar glow to his vision overwhelm him as the pressure in his hands burst forth. His skin was too tight, his veins were going to pop straight through it, and he had to stifle the urge to call out. Then it was over, and he looked at his hands again. Normal again.

They made their way out to a sign that read Hall of Heroes in large glowing letters, and in the nearby plaza he could see a group of people gathered. One of them was almost yelling. "And when we strike, we will teach Cornelius Slate a lesson… now."

"Who are they?" Elizabeth demanded loudly. "Oh, I think they're the Founders! Is that righ - ?"

He clapped a hand over her mouth too late. Heads were already turning, and a harsh screech went up. "Son of a bitch… it's him! It's the False Shepherd!"

Booker had just enough time to duck behind a sign before they started firing. _Shit, shit, shit._ Like a gopher he popped his head up, releasing a few precisely aimed bullets into the air, and then slid back down. The roaring of a gun machine made their way to his ears and he grimaced.

Edging forward, he leaned back and threw a fistful of Devil's Kiss at it. That was easy enough. Footsteps on his left made him swing his skyhook up to catch his attacker on the bottom of the jaw, and then in a swift movement he broke the man's neck, letting his head dangle freely at an odd angle.

"Ugh!" Elizabeth groaned in disgust.

Ignoring her, he pounded bullets into the machine, overwhelming it until it exploded. Then he took its place on the upper deck of the plaza, aiming across the way to the attackers charging at him. It was like shooting berries out of a tree.

"Crow!" Elizabeth warned. "See him?" She pointed, and said man popped out of a nearby building, falling easily to the floor below. Booker thrust his arm forward, pulling the figure into the air with a dose of Bucking Bronco. He checked his salts. There enough for one more burst of Vigor. He was going to have to find some more soon.

A few more bullets and the crow man was down, allowing them to move up the next set of stairs. He glanced at the child.

"On second thought, I think those tears of yours might come in handy next time we're in a scrape."

She shrugged. "There usually has to be a tear around for me to use."

"Usually?"

"I can make some of them, but only little things. And making them hurts. I got a headache when I did it earlier, did you know?" She rubbed at her temples again.

"Oh." It explained something. Why he hadn't seen it before. She just kept walking, as though nothing unusual had transpired. When they got to where the gondola should have been her shoulders sagged.

"They've shut down gondola access to the Hall of Heroes."

He sighed. Nothing was ever easy. "Must be because of what's going on with Slate." Still, there was a skyline there, ridden with carts, and he gave the lever a yank to clear it. She beamed.

"This is going to be fantastic!" Elizabeth declared. He managed a tight-lipped smile.

"You think that keen eye of yours could find some ammunition lying around?" he asked, remembering how children loved to be given jobs to do. "I sure could use it when there's trouble."

She nodded. "I'll do my best. Look, the line's clear!" she added, motioning to it. "We can take the skyline to the Hall of Heroes... Do I have to hold on to you again?"

"'Fraid so, kid." He extended a hand, but she shied away.

"I want my own skyhook thing. You let go last time."

A twinge of guilt. "Kid, I'm sorry. The skyline broke away, all right?" She didn't move. "Hey, if we find a skyhook, you can have it. But you've gotta hold on this one time. Got it?"

"All right." She sulked, taking his wrist and holding on tight. He attached to the skyline easily, and Elizabeth's grip closed around him until he lost feeling in the hand. When they dismounted at the Hall of Heroes, he had to flex the fingers several times before the numbness wore off. He scrounged around a bit, picking up a vial of salts. This would help.

"Who's Slate, anyway?" Elizabeth's voice rang out.

"I actually know the fellow," he admitted. "Seems he's still got a knack for making enemies."

"Look, a gondola." She went to peer inside, but backed off almost immediately. "Booker, there's a body in here!"

"Aw, leave it alone." He pulled her along by the arm, and she stared in tortured fascination as she was dragged away from it. When she stopped, he gave a sharp tug, but she poked her head up with something long in her hand.

"I found a sniper rifle," she declared, backing up so she could toss it to him. "Here, catch."

He examined it. "How do you know what a sniper rifle is?"

"It's one like the sniper up there has." She pointed.

"Oh, shit."

He took little time to aim, letting the shot fire almost on its own. The sniper bolted down to the balcony and Booker's gaze followed him through the rifle. Another shot, and the sniper collapsed.

"Looks like we've found where your old friend Slate is," Elizabeth said.

He sighed. "Let's just find Shock Jockey and get the hell out of here."

She nodded towards the doors. "More people are coming."

Booker aimed and fired, picking off the enemy one by one. A bullet whizzed past him, and another grazed his arm, and he scowled in pain.

"You're bleeding!" the little girl called, and he stopped long enough to catch the health kit she tossed his way.

"Appreciate it." Another shot fired. This was a nice gun. Where had she even found it? People he knew certainly didn't leave guns like this just lying around. When they were gone he lowered his weapon and tucked it away. "Let's go," he said, and she followed him into the Hall of Heroes.


	4. The Hall of Heroes

The Hall of Heroes

Another statue of a Motorized Patriot stood before them, blaring in a very irritating way. This time Elizabeth paid little attention, darting ahead to the next statue and reading off the inscription.

"'Our Prophet, Father Comstock, Commander of the Seventh Cavalry.'"

Booker shook his head in disgust. "That man did not lead the Seventh. Hell, I don't even remember the guy…"

"Corporal DeWitt proved his worth on the field that day," announced a distinctly recognizable voice.

"Well, I'll be." Booker looked up as though there were something to see. "Slate? Is that you?"

"You've always been different, haven't you, Booker?" Slate asked instead of answering. "You crave no glory."

Booker took a deep breath. "Look, I see you're… caught up in some kind of jam here. If you could see fit to let us through to where you keep this Shock Jockey, then we'll - "

"That tin soldier, Comstock, wants my boys dead," the other man cut in. "We won't die at his hands!"

"What does he mean?" Elizabeth peered at the nearby door, and Booker held her back.

"Shh! There's going to be trouble."

"All my men have left is a choice," Slate continued. "Die at the hands of a tin soldier, or a real one!"

With that, the doors burst open, and Booker turned to shoot a handful of crows in their direction. Within seconds the newly-entereds were ducking for cover, allowing him to pick them off easily. A quick glance at Elizabeth revealed her huddled in the corner, but he was distracted from her when Slate started up again.

"You see? You see, you're a killer, Booker! Like it or not!"

He picked a bit of ammo off one of the bodies and reloaded his gun. "Just give us the Shock Jockey," he growled.

"If you want the vigor, Booker, you will give my men a soldier's death. They wait for you in Wounded Knee and Peking."

Elizabeth hardly seemed to be listening. She was looking at a timeline of Columbia's history, glancing back over her shoulder when Booker caught up to her.

"I'll look really hard for bandages and ammo," she promised, eyes now on the scene in front of them. They were standing at what looked like museum exhibits now, one with a title reading _The Boxer Rebellion_ and the other, _The Battle of Wounded Knee_. What had Slate said? "They wait for you in Wounded Knee and Peking…" If listening to him was the only way to get the Shock Jockey, then so be it. Booker motioned to the little girl and headed into the Wounded Knee exhibit.

"The tin soldier has taken credit for the deeds of the real ones," said Slate's angry voice. "Now, your companion, young lady… He wrapped himself in glory on December twenty-ninth, eighteen hundred and ninety."

Elizabeth looked startled, forgetting what she had been doing (reaching up to touch a cardboard horse that had popped out of the background). "What does he mean?"

"You don't want to know," Booker managed.

They headed through two sets of double doors and arrived at another statue of Comstock, at which point Elizabeth turned and looked into his eyes. "Were…were you at Wounded Knee? I know you were," she said before he could even answer. "Your face changed."

He opened his mouth to reply, but Slate spoke first. "Tell her, Booker! Tell her how we strode that battlefield like the heroes of Sparta!"

"You did?" Elizabeth looked somewhere between awed and repulsed. Booker gave half a shrug.

"I still hear the screams," Slate went on. "Does Comstock?"

The little girl peeked around the next corner. "People up ahead," she said in a stage whisper.

"Got it." He readied his gun, pounding the first bullet forward before he had even fully turned the corner.

"Here's the soldier I spoke of!" Slate declared. "The kind of man Comstock pretends to be! See if I told you true!"

Booker was thankful for the crows at his beck and call as he shot them in the general direction of the men, finishing off the distracted with a few bullets. Their shouts echoed throughout the display as one by one, they slumped to the ground. Still they came, seemingly raining down from the ceiling even as he fired, dropping one by one only to be met with their inevitable death at the hands of DeWitt. When it was over he glanced towards Elizabeth, who had her hands over her ears and was gingerly stepping over the dead bodies.

"You see, young miss?" Slate shouted. "You see the man that Comstock wishes he was? A real soldier!"

Elizabeth didn't say anything, but Booker could see her lip quivering. He looked toward the ceiling. "I don't want to do this, Slate! Just give me what I need."

"I will," Slate said. "After you do the same for me. Come and look for me amongst the Boxers."

The girl tugged on his shirt. "Who are the Boxers?"

"The Chinese," he answered. "He means us to head to the other display."

Slate's voice continued booming around them as they hurried to the next exhibit. "Can you hear Comstock's tin soldiers coming to silence us? But we are the true patriots! The history that does not fit in their books."

The Boxer display was different, lit in cooler colors, and Elizabeth gave him a poke. "What is this?"

"It's the Boxer Rebellion," Booker answered.

"What happened there?" she persisted.

"In Peking?" This time it was Slate who replied. "It was my hand that put the city to the torch. Of course, that's not how Comstock tells it…"

They passed a few statues, a bridge, and another Motorized Patriot before getting to the meat of the exhibit. Once they were through the double doors Elizabeth seemed to brighten. "I read something about this before! Comstock took all the Columbian troops and brought them to Peking and - "

"COMSTOCK WASN'T THERE!" Slate roared. "The Boxers took my eye and thirty of my friends! Is there even a stone to mark _that_ sacrifice?"

No sooner had he finished speaking than Elizabeth loosed a cry. "Over there! Fireman!"

"Get behind a display!" Booker aimed his rifle and charged into the oncoming crowd, firing at each soldier as he neared them. A direct headshot took down almost anything. He was grateful for his gifted gun skills at that moment as he crept closer to the Fireman. This enemy he dodged around carefully, pumping one shot after another into it. It broke through his shield and he shouted.

"Be careful!" Elizabeth cried uselessly.

With renewed determination he fired a shot of Bucking Bronco before releasing a final bullet into the air. As the Fireman went down, Booker's shield was already starting to regenerate. Placing himself on the ledge where the Fireman had stood, he could easily aim at the soldiers going by, firing at one by one and watching them drop.

He knew it was over when he heard Slate's voice again. "You did them a favor, Booker," he said. "You let them die like men."

Elizabeth emerged from behind a display, whimpering slightly. "This is awful."

"Just hang on, kid." He raised his eyes to the ceiling. "I didn't ask for this! I have no quarrel with these men!"

"Heroes never ask - " Slate said.

"I never claimed to be no hero!"

"Then what are you?" the other man shot back. "If you take away all the parts of Booker DeWitt you tried to erase, what's left?"

Booker didn't reply. He didn't know what to say.

"Come back to the rotunda," Slate said. "It's almost over."

Reluctantly, Booker began to follow the path back. Elizabeth ran after him. "What did he mean, 'erase'?" she asked.

It took a minute for him to figure out how to phrase himself. "Now that you're out of yours, you might realize cages have their advantages."

"Mmm." She looked as though she didn't quite believe him. "I'd rather have a choice than none, Mr. DeWitt. No matter what happened."

"Yeah?" He threw a mild glare her way. "What if you woke up one day and realized you didn't like what you chose?"

"I've got what you need, Booker," Slate called as they neared the exit. "You will find me past the First Lady's memorial."

"This door," Elizabeth said importantly, running up to one marked with The First Lady. They stepped through it and her face broke into a grin. "A fountain, a fountain!" She dove towards it, and he pulled her back roughly by her blouse.

"We don't have time to play in fountains. Not if you're getting to Paris."

She wriggled free and held up a wet hand. "More money," she offered, stuffing it in his pocket.

"Appreciate it."

"You've seen what Comstock has done to my history," Slate said. "Now see how he's rewritten his own."

Elizabeth stopped by a statue with a plaque reading _Lady Comstock and the Miracle Child_ and read a bit aloud. "'The seed of the Prophet lay in the womb of our Lady but for a single week.'" She stopped and shook her head. "The Comstocks had a baby? I never read anything about that."

"That's quite an omission," Booker realized. "Can't imagine that was by accident."

Through the next set of doors, she bounced forward to read more again. "'But the child took ill, and our Lady prayed for the Prophet's heir day and night.' That's…" She was looking at the statue, her mouth a round O of surprise. "That looks like my tower."

"Lo!" the statue declared. "While Daisy Fitzroy has murdered my beloved, she shall not have the child! She shall not come betwixt her and prophecy! The seed of the Prophet shall sit the throne, and drown in flame the mountains of man!"

Elizabeth was quivering. "Am I…am I…?"

Booker nodded. "You're Comstock's daughter."

"No, I can't be, I…I can't!" was all she could manage.

"He wants you to follow in his footsteps."

She smacked a fist into her open palm. "Well, I want a puppy, but that doesn't mean I'm gonna get one!"

"It's a little different, kid." He set a hand on her shoulder, and she shrugged it off. "C'mon. The next door's locked, I looked already."

She peered at it, pulling out a hairpin, and had the thing snapped off within a minute. They headed through a few more displays regarding the Comstocks before arriving at a courtyard with a closed gate.

"This is just great," Booker muttered, pulling at the gate. It remained firmly shut, as he'd expected.

Elizabeth turned sideways and slipped through easily. "I can get through these bars, but you're too big."

"Doesn't help much," he said. "You're not getting to Paris on your own."

"I know." Her shoulders slumped for only a moment before she brightened again. "I know! If I made a tear with a freight hook, you could use that to come over. Right, Mr. DeWitt? Should I do that?"

He gave a nod. "Go ahead, kid."

"All right!" She turned and pulled apart something with her hands. There was a brilliant flash of light and then a freight hook stood plainly in front of them. He managed a smile as he attached to it, looking down at the little girl who had bent double clutching her stomach. She recovered quickly, standing up and smiling back at him, then pointing. "Look! There's other tears around here already. Do you see them, Booker? You can use them against the bad guys."

He peered over to look at a few grayish forms near to himself. One seemed to be a sort of balcony on an existing building, accessible by freight hooks, and the other a turret with some cover nearby. "But these don't hurt you?" he called. The last thing he wanted to do was get the kid irreparably damaged somehow and end up not paying his debt after all this.

She shook her head. "No. Only making them. I don't think I could open more than one at once, though."

"Not sure I understand this, but I'm not complaining. Bring in those freight hooks." When she complied, he attached to one and dropped easily to higher ground. "Now the turret."

She nodded, a huge grin on her face as she did it, and the freight hooks disappeared. "I'm helping!"

"Sure." He aimed through his rifle but didn't fire yet, waiting for the soldiers to get close enough that the turret could start weakening them. Then he shot at them easily, out of harm's way but for the occasional bullet flying by that missed by a mile. Once his shield broke and he had to duck and cover, but a handful of crows had taken care of that easily. They couldn't get to where he was without taking the time to do it, and his thinking ahead had paid off.

He was nearly out of salts, though. If only something could be done about that… There didn't seem to be any around here, but he jumped down and nodded to Elizabeth. "You got anything for me?"

"I'm still looking!"

Another bullet, and he grimaced. "Well, I think that was the last of them. Help me loot these guys."

"Loot?" she repeated.

"Dig through their pockets."

"Yuck!" Her face scrunched up. "That's gross."

He crossed his arms and looked at her, and she sighed. "Okay."

"Good."

Slate's voice interrupted them. "Comstock's pet can do some wonderful tricks. Do you know what you've got there, Booker?"

"That's enough, Slate! We just need the vigor to get out of Columbia." No answer. "We're taking it one way or another, Slate!" He turned to Elizabeth. "Keep your eyes open for that Shock Jockey vigor."

"Uh-huh!" She ran along after him. They headed into the next room, past a few vending machines, and he pointed to a tear that seemed to be a barrel of salts.

"Open it."

"Okay!" She pulled it through in a flash of light, and as he went up to get a vial, he heard Slate's voice again.

"Tin men, Booker! That's what Comstock will turn us into. Wires and gears to replace heads and hearts!"

There was a loud crash, and Elizabeth shrieked. "Look out!" She pointed at the Motorized Patriot display in the corner, which seemed to be currently occupied with punching its way through the glass it was kept behind before it strode out.

Well, that was just great. He knew the trick with these, and utilized their weakness. Ducking around the back, he bolted for the other side of the room, shooting the gears on the Patriot's back a few times before it was able to turn around, but by then it was nearly down. Once it was dead, Slate chimed in again.

"You see, Booker? Maybe you're the man I remember - maybe not. It doesn't matter. Comstock took our stories and scrubbed away our soul. Now…he's coming for me…and when I'm gone all that will be left is the lie."

Booker couldn't have cared less. "Just give us what we came for!"

"Look." Elizabeth pointed to a maintenance room. "It must be in there." She hurried up to snap the lock off, and Booker nodded his thanks. Inside, they found several Shock Jockey posters, a large amount of empty crates, a few vials of salts (which he picked up), and most bizarrely, a dead body. Booker sighed gruffly.

"The whole place is ransacked. There ain't no Shock Jockey here."

"Slate must have taken them. Look!" She ran into the main room again, where flickers of electricity were beginning to spark around. "Is that…?"

"Slate," Booker realized. "He's here."

They headed back the way they had come, until Elizabeth tugged on his shirt again and pointed upwards. "What is that?" she asked, and Booker followed his gaze to a ship above them.

"Comstock's ships. He's coming for Slate."

"It was SLATE who killed for his country at Wounded Knee!" shouted the other man, hurling another bolt of electricity onto the floor. "It was SLATE who stormed the gates of Peking! SLATE!"

"Slate!" Booker repeated.

"Comstock's coming, Booker! But our lives won't satisfy him- Oh no! He won't rest until he's turned us into tin! I won't let him! He took my past, but that's all he's getting from me!"

Booker could sense what was coming, and he motioned for the girl to get behind cover. "Just give us the vigor," he tried anyway. "We don't need to do this!"

"Here you go, boys!" Slate said. "A soldier's death awaits!"

Soldiers began jumping over the wall even before he had finished speaking. Booker inhaled deeply and began rolling the handle of his gun, seasoning the men with bullets. He found that if he stood in one place and fired at the same spot, they bounced freely in almost every direction, allowing him some ease of use.

"Ammo! Catch!" Elizabeth tossed something at his feet, and he had to bend to pick it up. Damn children being so short.

"You're not the Booker DeWitt I remember, tin man! TIN MAN!" Slate yelled. As Booker had to start firing again, he was dimly aware of the other man still speaking, but the sound of gunshots drowned him out. This time he was merciless, tossing a handful of Possession at a Patriot to help him out, letting it assist him in taking out the soldiers until it wore off. He flung his skyhook blindly at a few, charging through the enemies until he came upon a form slumped over itself, leaning against a wall. It clutched a vigor in its fist.

Slate.

Booker leaned down to pry the Shock Jockey out of the other's hands, but Slate reached out and gripped him by the collar. "You're not done here, soldier!" he said, drops of spittle spraying out of his mouth as he spoke. "Eat everything that's on your plate! Finish it!" He thrust out his hand, a shotgun clutched in it. With steady hands, Booker took it from him and aimed.

"They haven't changed you, Booker," Slate said, gripping the end of the gun and holding it to his own head. "Not one bit…"

"Don't!" Elizabeth screamed too late. The gunshot echoed through the room, and she had to turn away. Booker roughly pried the vigor from Slate's fingers.

"Shock Jockey," he muttered. "Well, this better be worth it, Slate…"

She looked back at him, tears in her eyes and revulsion on her face. "I guess it was a mercy killing," she said quietly. "Mr. Comstock and his men would've done the same thing, wouldn't they?"

"I guess so." He uncorked the bottle and drank deeply, feeling his hands pulse and glow with electricity for a few seconds before it settled fully. Elizabeth waited until he had caught his breath before asking her next question.

"Do you ever get used to it? The killing."

"Faster than you can imagine."

She grimaced and changed the subject as they began walking again, past the displays. "You know, those vigors seem very powerful. I can get you some salts if I find them, too."

"Thanks."

The little girl stopped and looked up at him. "Booker, I know it made you sad that Slate said those things. But you showed me, sometimes you have to do what you have to do."

He grunted. "There's survival…and then there's finding pleasure in the act."

"Booker - "

He powered up a gate, opening it with his newest vigor. "Look, you seem like a decent enough kid. That said, less you know about me, the better."

She gave a little sigh, and out they went, back into Soldier's Field.


	5. The Hall of Heroes, Reprise

The Hall of Heroes, Reprise

When Booker stepped outside, he could see several possible tears waiting to be opened. He sighed, turning to Elizabeth. "More fighting ahead?"

"I think so."

Without bothering to ask her to open any of them, he charged down the stairs, firing at one soldier from so close that the blow nearly took the other man's head off. Once that was done he dodged from side to side, using the scenery to his advantage as he ducked behind each low wall for a moment before releasing a shot. Elizabeth hurried along behind him, looting bodies with a look of disgusted horror on her face as she pulled this and that out of pockets. Once she found a vial of salts for him, and no sooner had he shot down the last enemy than he heard a cry of delight.

"I found a skyhook, Mr. DeWitt!"

"There you go." He gave her a thumbs up and she grinned, gripping it as if it were an ice cream cone, or a favorite toy. "Good timing."

They locked onto the skyline easily, Elizabeth right behind him. It was much easier to fire a rifle while riding when he didn't have to hold on to her. He mused over that for a moment while gunning down a few unwelcome visitors. Elizabeth waved wildly to get his attention, then pointed to a possible tear. "I can bring in a Patriot! Do you want that, Mr. DeWitt?"

"Sure, kid, go ahead."

It was very satisfying to watch the motorized robot gun down their enemies one by one, and Elizabeth leaped off the skyline next to it.

"Hey, what're you - " he started to protest, but she was already climbing up onto its shoulders.

"I'm going to ride it," Elizabeth announced. "Go forward, mister!" she said to the Patriot.

"Get off of there," he demanded. "Now. You'll hurt yourself."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "I made it."

"You'll fall when you open the next tear."

She seemed to consider, then climbed off reluctantly and followed him again. He breathed a sigh when they saw the Hall of Heroes welcome sign again. A few obviously-armed men were waiting near it, but they were nothing a handful or two of crows couldn't take care of. He was enjoying his Vigors quite a lot when another Patriot stormed out.

A grunt from DeWitt, and a well-aimed shot - that took the thing's head off. Now he was free to circle around and start pounding bullets into its back, which took it out rather quickly. They got into the elevator and he pounded his fist on the button before turning back to Elizabeth.

"I don't think I understand how you…do what you do," he admitted, scratching his head. "These tears."

"They're like doors," she answered. "I can go wherever I want, but I always come back. I always want to come back."

Why would a kid want to come back to an empty tower? "To what?" he questioned.

"I don't know." She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. "My family? And my friend Songbird."

The elevator stopped, and they got out, heading back through the familiar floor plan. "Huh," he mused. "How do you do that…whatever it is?"

"You know how I said I had lots of time to read?" She waited for his nod. "I tried really hard to figure it out. I read lots of stuff about physics and other stuff."

"Yeah? And what did that teach you?" What could a kid even get out of physics research, anyway?

"That there's a world of difference between what we see and what is."

The answer was simple, concise, and rather deep for a pint-sized girl. For a while he meandered along without an answer to her. Then she pointed upwards. "Booker, up there…one of those Shock Jockey doors. Maybe we should take a look."

"Later. We've got things to do."

They rode the skyline to the gondola station, where Booker quickly powered it up with a flash of Shock Jockey. Then he gave the lever a pull. Elizabeth turned a little circle. "The gondola's coming!"

"He will abandon you, my sweet Elizabeth," said an easily recognizable voice from somewhere above them. "Once he has what he needs, he will leave you alone. What else could you expect from a liar and killer of women?"

"Comstock," Booker said aloud.

"Father…Prophet…whomever you are, I'm leaving," Elizabeth declared. "And you can't stop me, so there."

"Oh, sweet child, that's where you're wrong."

On cue, a gunship came swooping in and fired a hard shot directly at them; the two jumped in opposite directions and Elizabeth took cover.

"Give me a tear!" Booker shouted, and she nodded.

"Okay!" The little girl pulled a gun automaton out of thin air, letting it fire freely at their target. He grabbed her round the waist, preparing to rush with her to the gondola, but she pointed wildly. "Patriot!"

Dropping her roughly to the floor, Booker aimed through his sniper rifle and fired off a round of bullets at the Patriot. "Gondola!" he ordered. "Now!"

"But there's still people shooting at us!"

"Just run!"

She bolted, but stopped short when she saw a locked door. "I can't do this with people shooting at me!" she protested.

Oh, for crying out loud. He fired at the others, taking them down one by one, finding great satisfaction in watching each one fall. Then he stopped himself. Satisfaction? That was just wrong. With a shake of his head, he turned to see Elizabeth already hard at work on that lock. It fell away and he stepped inside to pull the lever. Elizabeth chewed on her lower lip slightly.

"When you were passed out on the beach, you kept saying something," she told him conversationally.

"Yeah?" His heart thudded in his chest. He shouldn't be afraid of a kid knowing things - he scolded himself.

"You said, 'Anna.'"

"I don't want to talk about that," was his firm response.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to pry." She looked at her boots, then changed the topic. "Where are you from, Mr. DeWitt?"

"New York."

"What did you do there? Like for a job?"

"Business much like this." He shrugged. "Not something that really caters writing on a resume."

"I'm happy you came to get me."

He snorted. "How do you think I ended up here? I gambled. And now I owe money to men you don't want to be in debt to. I came here to pay it back. Me busting you out - what do you think that was? Charity?"

She quirked a brow. "Who sent you?"

"Somebody who was willing to take my marker in exchange for you."

The little girl was silent, obviously chewing over what he had said, as the gondola stopped at the First Lady Aerodome. He led her up the stairs and heard a shout, followed by the firing of a gun.

Of course there'd be armed people even in here. Nothing was ever easy. He peered at them through the sniper rifle, a short series of banging sounds following this action, and gradually they fell down dead one at a time. Elizabeth hardly seemed to notice. She was peering into a kinetoscope. He dragged her away with some difficulty and took her into the next elevator. She settled back against the wall.

"So, looks like they call you the False Shepherd."

"And you the lamb," he shot back.

"Don't call me that or I'll call you a shepherd."

"Suits me."

"How do you think they knew you'd be coming?" she asked. "There are lots of people wanting to kill us, and it's a little scary. But not as scary as it was at first. You're good with a gun."

He held up his hand. "Either they've got a prophet on their side…"

"Ha ha."

"Or them that hired me also wrote the signs."

The elevator came to a halt and they got out, running along a narrow hallway. "Why?" Elizabeth asked.

"Got me."

They got into the airship, and she took a moment to look around while he went straight for the console. Booker looked over at the little girl, whose eyes were shining like she was in a daze. "You all right?"

"I want to see Paris," she said breathlessly. "I want to see…everything."

He smiled, setting the coordinates: forty north by seventy-four west. "Well, that's up to you now. There's no one - "

"Wait! What is that?" She set her hands on her hips, eyes fixed on the numbers far above her head. "Those numbers won't take us to Paris. That goes to New York."

He stared at her. "How did you know that?"

"I had lots of time in my tower." Elizabeth crossed her arms over her chest, her eyebrows slanting at a harsh angle. "Time to study things like geography."

He took a deep breath. There was only one thing to tell her now: the truth. "I owed money. And there's a fellow…he offered to wipe away my debt in exchange for you."

Booker wasn't sure what he expected her to do. Scream and try to run away, maybe. But instead, she gave what should have been the completely predictable response, burying her face in her hands and starting to cry. He gave a deep sigh. As much as he disliked children's tantrums, this was a rather mild one, and she was making him feel bad.

"Come on, it - " He came up behind her and put a hand on her shoulder. "C'mon, everything's going to be okay." She was looking over her shoulder now, an expression of absolute fury on her face. "Will you just turn around and talk to me, and we can - "

Then the wrench hit him in the face.


	6. Finkton Docks

Finkton Docks

Slowly, Booker became aware of time passing. There was Elizabeth, adjusting the coordinates on the machine… Looking out the window, spotting something passing by, fleeing.

A man patched up a wounded person sitting next to him, while another supported a limping form.

A black man leaned down for a look at Booker, then socked him squarely in the face.

The next thing he was aware of was hanging halfway out of the airship, overlooking workers breaking down rocks and a Handyman cracking its knuckles. "Oh shit!" he hollered.

"Daisy, fresh air did the trick," said a man's voice- the same man he'd seen before. "This one's awake." Booker turned to look at him, and then he heard a female voice.

"So you're this 'False Shepherd' we've been hearing so much about. Caused a mess of trouble at the raffle," said Daisy, approaching him. She had a hard face and a rough voice to match.

"You Fitzroy?" he asked.

"Nothing but."

He took a deep breath. "I got no quarrel with you, or your Vox Populi. But this is my airship you're hanging me out of, and I've got perilous need of it."

"Really?" She quirked a brow in amusement. "'Cause it sure looks like old Comstock's airship to me."

"Listen, I ain't looking for a fight-"

"There's already a fight, DeWitt. Only question is, which side you on?" She cocked her head to the side. "Comstock is the god of the white man, the rich man, the pitiless man. But if you believe in common folk, then join the Vox. If you believe in the righteous folk, then join the Vox."

"I just want my ship," Booker cut in.

"And the Vox shall give her to you," Daisy said agreeably. "But first, you must help the Vox." She held up a card. Booker could only just see the name Chen Lin printed on it. "Down in Finkton, there's a gunsmith who can supply weapons to our cause. Get our guns from him, and you shall have your ship back."

With that he felt a sudden push, realizing too late that it was the black man from earlier knocking him clean out of the ship. A shout loosed itself from his throat as his hands scrabbled at nothing, and when he landed, colors danced in front of his eyes for several long moments.

He got up, rubbing the back of his head slightly and hoping he hadn't hit it too hard. The first order of business was obvious to him. "Better find Elizabeth before she lights out of here." A girl, even in her twenties, wouldn't have been safe wandering around. And an eight-year-old? He'd need to get to her quickly. He stared for a moment up at the Finkton sign, then started walking a little dizzily.

There sure were a lot of people cleaning the docks. He moved past so many of them he almost feared he was walking in circles, until he reached a door. A little tug made it budge only the slightest bit, so he gathered his strength and yanked, hearing the unfamiliar echo of a man's voice as he did so.

"Get out of here, snipe," the voice said, and through the gap in the doors, Booker could see Elizabeth stumbling forwards off of a ship. "You want to know what we do to pretty little stowaways? Or maybe you don't." He chuckled hoarsely.

Elizabeth steadied herself, took one look at the doors, and bolted in the opposite direction. After he'd pried the doors open enough to squeeze through, Booker took off after her. "Hey!" he shouted. "Hey, j- ergh, just stop for a minute!"

She ducked and slid under a moving crate. "No! Stay away!"

"I just want to talk to you!" He crouched down to move under them.

"I said stay away!" She flung open a tear behind her, a small pit of sand that his feet got stuck in as he moved. He grimaced and tried to will it to close.

"Ugh, Elizabeth!" He pulled through the other side of the tear. "Just hold up for a minute. I'm not angry with you."

"I'm angry with you!" she shouted, pulling open another rip in reality behind herself. This time it was a marching band moving slowly past.

"Hey, watch out!" Booker called to the band as he tried to charge through. "Move it! Move!"

"Stay back!" The little girl threw open a tear of a huge train riding on railroad tracks, blocking his path. He backed up.

"Whoa! God damn it!"

"I am not going with you!" she screamed even as he ran towards her. He could see her struggling with yet another tear.

"Don't go in there!" he warned.

"I don't care what you say!"

But she should have listened. Not a moment after she opened it, two heavily-armed men took her by the elbows and pulled, and then the tear shut. Booker ground his palm into his face. "No, no, no!"

"No!" He could hear her screaming faintly. "Let me go!"

"We got her!" said another voice.

He groaned. "There's gotta be another way in."

Yes, there was. Another set of doors lay to the side, and he pushed through to the pier.

"Requested troops are on their way," began an announcer's voice, but then he couldn't hear anything but Elizabeth shrieking.

"Let go of me! Get your hands off of me! Let me go!"

"Comstock wants you and we mean to give you to him!" said the other voice from earlier. "Won't you be quiet!" As Booker hurried up the stairs, he heard a sound like a slap, and Elizabeth cried out. "My patience is done!"

He attached to the skyline ahead as fast as he could, hardly noticing the vast number of enemies below. Only when they started shooting at him did he take his hook off the line long enough to strike a few of them, and then he attached to it again. Once a Handyman gave the line a sharp shock that made Booker wince, but he quickly took care of the problem.

The skyline brought him up to another set of doors, which he opened just in time to see Elizabeth reappear and attach to the next line. Damn her for finding her own skyhook.

"Will you stop already?" he shouted.

She hopped off at the end of the line and took off running. "I am not going with you!"

Didn't this kid ever get tired? "Elizabeth," he hollered. "Wait!" He broke into a sprint and might have caught her if not for the Handyman that knocked him down, bringing a flash of pain to his entire upper body.

"False Shepherd!" it announced, and picked him up as if he were no heavier than a pencil. Then the Handyman tossed him, and he thought for a moment he was certainly going to die except that he was flung into a moving crate. The man held on for dear life, trying to maintain consciousness despite the pain. Adrenaline quickly solved that problem. When he looked up, it was just in time to see the Handyman throw something that slashed the ropes holding up his crate, and he fell down, down, and it would have ended there except that Elizabeth pulled open a tear. Was it another crate? No, something with ropes to hold on to. He gripped one, looking up to see her standing on a structure looking over the edge.

"He-hey!" he said. "I'm slipping!"

"Do not attempt to follow me, Mr. DeWitt," she said haughtily.

"Elizabeth!" he pleaded. "I've made an arrangement to get our airship back."

That made her stop and take a few steps towards him. "You can get us out of here?"

"Yes. I just need to supply enough weapons to arm an entire uprising." He tried to play it off like it was no big deal, but she just rolled her eyes.

"And where will we get these weapons? From one of our friends?" the little girl spat.

His structure was level with hers now, and he met her eyes. "A gunsmith in Finkton. Should be a walk in the park." Booker held out a hand. "What do you say - partners?"

She scowled. "You're a liar, Mr. DeWitt, and a thug. But you're also the only person who can get me to Paris." With that, she grabbed his hand and pulled so hard he lost his footing entirely as he got onto the docks, taking a few minutes to right himself. "Don't get used to having me," she said sharply.

"All right, kid," he sighed, and checking that she was still following, he pushed through the next set of doors.


End file.
